


Between the Lines

by Wenzel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt, slightly fluffy angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenzel/pseuds/Wenzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous asked: genji/mercy, maintenance</p><p>When Genji's body goes on the fritz, he doesn't have much choice but to go to Mercy. But of all the things he wants to do, that might just be the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

When his mask’s lights first flickered, he didn’t know what it meant. Standing in the shadows, surrounded by guards, he raised a hand to touch the mask. He didn’t feel any heat or vibrations. It was as silent as ever. But he pressed against the lights and squinted at his mask’s feedback.

Nothing was amiss, diagnostics reported. He didn’t necessarily trust it, but when a pair of guards peered into his alcove, he decided to ignore it for the time being. It took an hour to work his way up through the complex and into the small room. Several omnics looked up, their bodies chained and their minds stuck in a coded loop. “They can perceive,” his master had told him, “but they cannot understand. Free them, Genji.”

He destroyed the computer terminal. But the omnics came out dazed, and he had to wait for his master’s reinforcements. “You did well,” his master said as captured omnics were led away from the room by a group of local omnics. “The loss of life was unfortunate, but they would not have acquiesced to our request.” His master looked to a tall, burlier omnic. “We may take our leave, I think. Our captured brethren are in good hands.”

Genji didn’t know the local group—only that they were part of some activist collective. But he trusted his master. He walked over bloodied ground as his master drifted beside him. “Where does our journey bring us next?” he asked. He knew his master would play coy—words about fate, destiny, the ebb and flow of harmony’s demands—but his master knew that harmony required some action.

“We rest,” his master said. “And see where the currents of life take us. Perhaps we’ll see to your suit as well.”

Genji stiffened, though his gait didn’t slow. “What do you mean, Master?”

Zenyatta looked at him, not his master. His face provided no expression, but his voice did. “You were slower than usual. Your walk is lopsided. Slight differences, but I wonder if your body requires maintenance.”

“The lights flickered in my mask,” Genji acknowledged, trying not to squirm. It was unbecoming. Silly, even. “I have provided maintenance to my body. You’ve helped, Master.” It sounded more sexual than it was. Genji’s outer body was largely flexible metal, but that didn’t mean there weren’t spots he couldn’t reach. “It may have been a defense used to prevent omnics from infiltrating—“

“—Yet I walked in without a problem, even before you freed the other omnics.” Zenyatta’s voice turned placid, contemplative. “I do not know who we would contact for repairs. Who provided the assistance when you were in Overwatch?”

Angela. But—“I’m sure we can find a third party less under scrutiny.” Zenyatta nodded, but Genji sensed his doubt. Zenyatta  always refused to meet his eyes when he doubted. The doubt turned out to be warranted. The first engineer they went to, one who lived in Numbani, stared at his diagnostics sheets for a solid minute before she shook her head.

“Too much flesh,” she said. “I don’t doctor hearts. Whoever built this? Go talk to them.”

He thought about contacting Torbjorn. But the man’s hatred of omnics would likely deny Genji treatment. Genji was equally machine as man, and with Zenyatta in tow, he knew he’d receive a cold reception at best. Outright refusal was more likely. Zenyatta said nothing over the coming days. Genji felt his body slow more and more. The metal he’d come to embrace became more like a cage.

He spent an hour fussing over the message to Angela. There were things he couldn’t say and wouldn’t say. _I’m sorry for vanishing_ implied he owed her an explanation. _I missed talking to you_ opened a door better left shut. He looked at pictures of her online and marvelled at how little she’d aged. There was no snow-white to her platinum hair, nor were there crow’s feet around her smiling eyes. He found himself smiling back. It wasn’t a good sign.

> Dear Dr. Ziegler,
> 
> My body requires maintenance. Is there a time that works best for you?
> 
> Genji

It was a terrible email. It was brusque, demanding, and curt. It wasn’t an email he would send to a friend. But it kept the door closed, and it tied a bit of shame to her smiling picture. He told himself she’d reply. She was too kind not to. Even still, he breathed a sigh of relief when the message came.

> Genji! It is so nice to hear from you again. I am, of course, always willing to help. It is natural that the mechanic parts of your body would experience great wear and tear. I am always available in the evening—around 9 o’clock? I’m sure you can enter the building at will, but I would prefer if you would check in with security.
> 
> -Angela

He didn’t bother with the security desk. Zenyatta waited on the road outside—there were shops, restaurants, and most importantly animals and children. When he’d left, Zenyatta sat at the corner and watched a man strum on a guitar. Children whispered and pointed, and Zenyatta’s voice echoed through the streets as he spoke to them in warm tones.

His master was ridiculous. Yet Genji knew that Zenyatta’s kind soul was the reason he’d found peace. After so much death and change, harmony sounded as sweet as honey. Maybe, he thought, that was why he looked at Angela so fondly. She’d always been the one to bring peace to the table, even as Reyes argued for bloodshed and Morrison for the lesser evil.

The Ziegler Institute for Medicine was not, as some said, an exercise in vanity. Angela had nothing to do with the founding, though she gave it her blessing in the end after a few years of campaigning from Zurich locals. He remembered her bright blush when he’d brought it up once. “It’s their patriotism,” she said. “I appreciate the sentiment, though there are better figures to name the institute after.”

He doubted it. As did most of Switzerland, he suspected. He found her in a plush office, a pair of silvery glasses perched on her long nose. Her hair was tied back in a rough ponytail. She yelped when he dropped down from the vents.

“Mein Gott,” she swore. Her glasses clattered on to the floor; Genji leaned down to pick them up, wincing as his body seized. A faint squeak of metal followed the motion. He looked up to see Angela’s blue eyes narrow. “Sit,” she ordered. “Was that rust?”

“It shouldn’t be,” he said, but she pushed him back into the chair she’d been sitting in. “I remember you saying that the metal couldn’t rust.”

“With proper treatment,” she said. “And in ideal circumstances.” She ran a finger over his arm. Genji was glad he was frozen, otherwise he would have… flinched? Leaned into the touch? He didn’t want to think about it too closely. “How many times have you ended up in salt water?”

He thought back; he subconsciously leaned away, the metal creaking. Angela’s face darkened as she took her glasses. “Absolutely unnecessary,” she muttered. “Hold still. If you decide to keep diving into oceans, you’ll need to come to me regularly. Understood?”

“Clearly,” he said dryly. She walked to her desk. Her back was stiff, and he realized why when he saw her shoes. They were soft-looking slippers, decorated in rabbits. “A new wardrobe addition?”

Angela blushed bright red. “A gift from a friend—Ms. Hana Song?”

“I’ve heard of her,” he said. He’d seen videos of her work. Arrogant, he thought, but skilled. Like he’d been once. “She has quite the sense of taste.”

Angela rifled through drawers. A metal kit clunked against the wood desk, and she popped it open. She brought vials, needles, and little capsules. “Is that all you’ll need?” he asked. He eyed the small group of items.

“Technology has advanced,” she said. “You won’t have to endure an iron brush or deconstruction.” She pulled a stray chair to him and sat in it. With her help, he stretched his arm out and popped the metal door that covered his veins. She rubbed his skin with a wipe, the feeling cold and tingling. Even with the dulled sensations his skin felt it, along with the warm feeling of her skin through her gloves. He watched her draw a strange green liquid from a vial and tap out air bubbles. “This will pinch.”

It pinched _and_ burned. His arm shook when the needle withdrew. She placed a cotton bandage overtop and pressed down. “This will loosen the stiffness,” she said; “the nanomachines will eat away at any rust.” She nodded towards a large blue capsule. “It contains the machines, though I’ll have to get you water, won’t I?”

She sighed when he picked it up and popped it in his mouth anyway. It burned going down, but it went down. “You always have to prove a point, don’t you?” She released her grip on the bandage. The pricked skin still bled slightly, but it’d lessened enough for a bandaid. “I’m getting you water anyway.”

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice husky from dryness. He needed to leave as soon as possible, he thought. Things—the door was opening. He winced when she returned with cold water. Under her sharp eyes, he drank it. It was like coming in from the desert.

“It’d be best if I kept you in for observation,” she told him. “Your body was very experimental, and while the treatments should help, I’d prefer if I studied the effects and developed something more long-term.” She patted his hand, but didn’t pull away after the last touch. He looked at her and her faint smile. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been like this, hasn’t it?” She leaned forward, and he wondered if she was aware of the motion. “I missed you—though I understand why you left.”

He didn’t want understanding. He wanted grudging help and a cold dismissal. His skin itched. The sensation didn’t fade when his port closed, or when he pulled away from her. His metal parts were already loosening, he thought. Once again, Angela had proved the miracle worker. “I should go,” he said. It sounded stupid to his own ears.

She didn’t chase him when he vanished up to the vents. “You’ll have to come back, you realize?” she called out. “The treatment needs more work!”

But until then, he thought, he could pretend the door was closed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open for prompts here and at the-wenzel.tumblr.com! Thank you guys for reading. <3


End file.
